Intricacies
by Beautifully Ugly
Summary: JL, oneshot: "Because no matter what happens, no matter how many games they play, he’s always too captivated by her to stop taking part." R


**Disclaimer:** Think J.K. Rowling's a fourteen-year-old who's just had her mock GCSE's? Nah didn't think so.

**A/N:** Erm, yeah...I'm aware this is really late, considering I actually first posted it a few days before New Year's. Hope you enjoy it, though, despite its lateness (and choppiness). It got requested to be posted again (nearly _four_ months ago... —coughs guiltily and turns away—), and I was going to post it, I really was after editing it—but this and that got in the way and then I realised that I _still_ wasn't a 100 percent satisfied with it. Still, here it is. And it's edited! By the way, this fic was inspired by the song "_Shiver_" by Maroon 5, and I really wouldn't have been able to write this without it's help. Anyway, without further ado...

* * *

**Intricacies**

They've always played the game. Always, ever since they first met.

It's never been spoken of; they've never had the need to discuss it. But it's always underneath the surface always challenging them, pushing them until tension reaches its peak and someone's resolution cracks.f

And when the battle's over, they start all over again.

It's a never-ending cycle, one he's nowhere near tiring of yet. And needless to say, they've played the game innumerable times, ever since they were both chubby, pink-cheeked eleven-year-olds.

Discarding all rules, they've relied on sharp tactic and wicked scheme to guide them, often ending in her winning most of the time, and him silently being dubbed the sore loser. But there've been times (and quite enjoyable ones at that, he notes) when _he's_ been victorious, and he's gloating inwardly about how the tables have turned and her bottle-green eyes are glinting and flashing perilously.

A little signal—a quirk of the eye on his part, perhaps, or a scowl on hers—and it would begin.

Between First Year and Third Year, it had always been a game of who would win their playful bickers. She'd thrashed him then, a wicked little smirk playing across her lips. It was never that he couldn't be as witty or as sharp as she was, just that he'd been rendered speechless around her. For some reason, her scarlet pigtails and the faint freckles adorning her nose had just _Avada Kedavra_'d his words before they'd even left his mouth. But it'd always been worth it to see her win, see that triumphant smile glowing on her face, and it'd make him happy and he didn't know why.

Fourth Year to Sixth Year, however, it was a game of who could aggravate who the most. And he's proud to say he'd won most of them, beat her by miles. He'd been at his most arrogant then, most unyielding, most sharp, most unruly. And that in itself, he knows, irritated her to no end. The crap that flowed out of his mouth even amazed him, but he'd known it'd get a rise out of her, and he liked watching her getting riled up, because truth be told, she looked rather sexy. And he'd told her that, too, in Sixth Year, only to get kicked very painfully in the groin—and _Merlin_, she struck hard; he remembers remaining in his crouched-over position for god knows how long after that. But it still satisfied him, though, because he'd won, and that was all that mattered to him then because he was an arrogant, cocky, good-for-nothing toerag. Just as she labelled him.

In their Seventh Year, however, the game's been their most intense yet. It seems to be a combination of all the versions they've played in their previous years, and he doesn't know what it is, but there's something _different_ about it that he just can't quite place his finger on. Maybe it's the fact that he's more attracted to her than ever before, because she's just so undeniably _beautiful_ in the way she is, or the fact there seems to be that irrefutable _pull_ when they get too close, and it seems as though he has to defy gravity to draw back from her. Whatever it is, there's something unquestionably different about their game, and he's unsure as to whether it's working in his favour.

He's watching her out of the corner of his eye as they finish off their rounds for tonight. Her posture is graceful and elegant, yet sexy and appealing simultaneously, and this isn't the first time he's had to grit his teeth in order to prevent himself pinning her to the wall and having his wicked way with her—not that she'll let him anyway. Crimson locks fall down her back in a high ponytail, and she brushes her fringe out of her sparkling emerald eyes as they round a final corner.

It's then that their eyes clash—bright, fiery green against dark, impenetrable hazel. A wordless agreement passes between them.

_Bring it on, Evans,_ he thinks confidently, watching as she smirks and tears her striking emerald eyes away from his.

_Bring it on._

* * *

"Potter?"

"Hm?"

He doesn't look up, too distracted by his thoughts to acknowledge the redheaded beauty sitting opposite him.

"Pass me those papers behind you."

"Mm..." He barely hears what Lily's saying, instead dipping his quill into the inkbottle, attempting to drown out the noise of the incessant chatter in the Gryffindor common room.

"Potter!"

His eyes snap upwards, clashing with her exotic green.

"Yeah, I—" James stops abruptly, mesmerised by the emerald of her gorgeous eyes. He doesn't need to try and drown out the noise any longer; he seems to be immune to it. All he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears and his heart smashing into his chest. His lips are parted and his clear hazel eyes absorb every inch of her, the irritated expression on her pretty features, the flush on her smooth, pale cheeks, her tousled crimson locks, her soft, pouted lips—

"Oh for God's sake..."

He blinks, attempting to regain focus, the din of the chaotic room returning suddenly. But he's long since accepted that he can't focus—not when she's around.

Before he's gathered his bearings, Lily's leaning over him and he catches a whiff of her intoxicating scent, her luscious red curls cascading over her shoulder, brushing his arm, making him shiver visibly...

Does she know what she does to him?

Her graceful fingers have barely grazed the parchment James knows she initially meant to get, and her warm breath crashes over his skin—he shivers. The goose bumps are noticeably visible and he knows Lily's smirking that captivating, sexy smirk of hers, undoubtedly knowing his current state of mind.

And he doesn't know how she did it, but she's just scored, and at the rate it's going, she'll most likely win this one. In fact, he's completely sure she will.

The aroma of lilies fills his nostrils and he's feeling dizzier, dizzier, and he closes his eyes to savour their proximity.

And then in an instant, the familiar scent's gone, and the air around him seems so much colder as he opens his eyes and catches her climbing delicately out of the portrait-hole, stuffing the papers into her bag.

He immediately scrambles after her. He knows people are gawking, sending him strange looks, but he doesn't care. She used her womanly wiles to score, and that's all that's rushing through his mind as he clumsily climbs out of the portrait-hole. She knows the effect she has on him and she deliberately used it to her advantage, and _that isn't fair_.

He's breathing heavily by the time he steps out, and the sight that greets him doesn't improve his temper.

She's leaning against the wall, chatting amicably to one of the members of his Quidditch team, Fabian Prewitt. His heart leaps into his throat, his chest tightening with rage. Defiant hazel eyes narrow as his blood boils, and he's overcome with a powerful urge to hex the life out of his Seeker.

And the way she's smiling at him doesn't help matters either; her brilliant green eyes sparkling, rosy lips plump and soft. He wishes she'd smile at _him_ like that, but it seems as though everyone _but_ him has the ability to make her smile. He acts as though it doesn't matter most of the time, and he admits it himself, he does hide his wounds well. So well, in fact, that he himself sometimes gets sucked into his own little lie.

He strides over to them, purposefully grazing her arm with his; Lily half-glances at him, the action so subtle he wonders if he imagined it. Nodding at the other boy, he grits his teeth as he notes the way Fabian's watching at her.

Because, really, she's out of Fabian's league. She can do so much better than him, than any other boy in the school. With dark eyes, light brown hair and a crooked smile, Fabian's not the type of boy she goes for anyway. But she's a _tease_. She's too good for him—they both know it—but it won't stop her from flirting with him shamelessly just to anger James.

Clenching his fists aggressively, he wants nothing more than to punch his Seeker, cause the boy physical pain—

"See you," Fabian murmurs, black eyes roaming appreciatively over Lily's form. He gives James a friendly nod but his eyes drift back to Lily, lingering on her before he turns and casually strides over to the portrait-hole, palms shoved deep into his pockets as he offers the password.

Someone's going to get substituted at Quidditch practice tomorrow, James decides, nearly fuming at the way Fabian tilts his head to send a grin her way before climbing through the open portrait-hole—a grin she returns with casual grace.

He waits until the portrait-hole swings shut and the Fat Lady disappears before rounding on an amused Lily, his jaw tense.

"What was that about?" he asks in a fruitless attempt to be casual. And if she hasn't figured out by his tone how insanely jealous he is, she surely will at a glance of his eyes, which he's sure are portraying his envy all too easily.

"What's it to you?" she wants to know, a smirk passing her lips fleetingly.

"He's a git," says James, hazel orbs flashing dangerously.

"Just like you, then." He stares at her with impenetrable hazel spheres, his expression indiscernible. An intense jolt of pain rushes through him at her words but he disguises his hurt, slipping on his mask of indifference.

"He's more of a git than I am," he replies. She sighs in exasperation.

"What do you want, Potter?"

_You_, he wants to say, but shoves the thought towards the back of his mind as he speaks.

"What on earth was that?" he demands turbulently, motioning fiercely towards the portrait-hole.

"What?" She's looking up at him innocently but he knows better than to believe her. He knows she's well aware that he's referring to the incident in the common room.

"You—you..." he struggles to gather his words. "You _cheated_!" he accuses her.

It's the first time either of them has acknowledged the fact that they're playing a game, but even as he says it he knows she didn't cheat. He just needs to vent his frustration, and unfortunately, she happens to be the closest person in the vicinity right now.

"Right," she nods sceptically, a smirk gracing her lips.

Her hand brushes his thigh, and by the sparkle in her eye he knows it's not accidental.

Because there's no overusing the scheme. He never sees it coming when she uses it, no matter the amount of times she's brought it into play.

He wonders why she does it. Why she tantalises him so, gives him faux hope, and brings reality crashing down with a snap of her soft, tender fingers. To win the game? If so, it's a brilliant tactic, one that always catches him off guard and—if he dares admit it—has the potential to win her more of their little 'games' than he could ever hope to do so himself.

But it's unbelievably torturous. Honeydukes Best Chocolate being nibbled delicately before his very eyes. A Snitch fluttering directly in his reach, only to speed away when he lifts his hand to catch it. Adam and Eve's forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden.

She's _his_ forbidden fruit.

He stares at her indomitably, his jaw visibly tensing as he attempts to control himself. It's all he can do not to wrap his arms around her and kiss her until they're both breathless and panting and wanting more.

"Later, Potter."

Smirking, she winks at him, her long lashes brushing against her high cheekbone briefly, and sashays down the corridor with ease, leaving his heart lurching with longing.

It's clear she's won this one and he hates it. He hates that she has that kind of power over him when he's so strong in every other aspect of his life—apart from her. She has him wrapped around her little finger and she knows it. She knows exactly what she does to him.

_Fine,_ he thinks furiously, watching her strut away from him.

_Playing dirty, are we? We'll see about that..._

Because no matter what happens, no matter how many games they play, he's always too captivated by her to stop taking part.

* * *

"Where the hell've you been, Potter?!"

At the sound of her furious voice, he glances up from a very 'intense' discussion he's partaking with Padfoot and Wormtail (Moony having excused himself for a Prefects' meeting). He spots Lily storming towards their beech tree, her scarf and robes billowing behind her, and his next words die on his lips just like all those other times.

Her dark crimson locks fly about her shoulders as the wind weaves through the curls, tangling them, and her cheeks have acquired a flush from the cold and, probably, from her anger. Her emerald eyes have never looked brighter, and he'd stop to admire the view, he really would, if not for the fear of getting his balls ripped out.

"Flower," he says pleasantly, knowing it'll get a rise out of her; he's still not over the way she won last time.

"_Where have you been?_" she asks irately. "And _don't_ call me that," she adds harshly.

"Missed me?" His eyes roam over her form appreciatively and he smiles at her, choosing to ignore her last demand.

"Don't flatter yourself, you bloody idiot," she snaps. "I want to know where the bloody hell you've _been_ while _I_ was at a prefects' meeting trying to control those bloody prefects!"

_Score_, he thinks smugly, observing her huffing.

If the game's this easy, he'll have it in the bag in no time.

Sirius lets out a low whistle, shaking his head amusedly as his mirth-filled, stormy-grey eyes meet James's glinting hazel. He grins wickedly back at his best mate before looking up at Lily once more.

"I was right here, of course," he informs her charmingly.

She growls, a low, primal sound. It makes the knots in his stomach tighten considerably, though he's not entirely sure whether it's because he's afraid of facing her wrath or because of a reason entirely unrelated to that...

"Don't play smart with me, Potter," she snaps, and his ears perk up suddenly at the subtle reference to their game.

"And why ever would I do that?" James offers her an enchanting grin before turning to his friends, anticipating her next move.

Next thing he knows he's being jerked upwards with a shocking strength he didn't know she had in her. Losing his balance as he's pulled roughly to his feet, he grabs at her, his arms flying around her waist. Surprisingly enough, however, she doesn't squirm away, but glowers up at him dangerously. He doesn't think she's actually registered the fact that he's holding her right now.

"Fuckin' hell, Lily," he smirks down at her, hazel orbs following intently the path of her tongue as it traces its way across her pink lips. "Eager, aren't we?" Her emerald eyes narrow dangerously into slits but he's unaffected by her fury. He notices the slight pressure her hand is putting on his chest, the way her nose is so hazardously close to grazing his jaw line. He swallows, hard.

"Hardly," she retorts angrily, glaring up at him.

"You..." His words evaporate into thin air and his gaze drops to her lips once more and it's now that they both become fully aware of their proximity.

All of a sudden Padfoot and Wormtail have faded away and so has everything else; it's just him, her, and the uncontrollable urge he has to kiss her, the blood pounding in his ears, the inability of his eyes to see anything apart from the gorgeous redhead in front of him...

And then all of a sudden he's noticing little things, like how her eyes are so much more stunning up close, how they're flecked with different hues of green amongst the overall emerald, and, again, the way she smells of lilies, how unbelievably intoxicating it all is. He notices the way her skin looks so smooth and soft in the sun, the way her fringe keeps falling into her eyes despite her futile attempts to tuck it behind her ear... And how much rosier her lips are, how tempting they look, how she's still holding onto his loosened tie, gazing up at him with blazing eyes...

He attempts to move away, he knows he should, but something's glued him to the spot and he can't shift an inch except to lean forwards. She seems to be having a similar problem, for she, too, hasn't moved, and is staring up at him with an illegible expression on her striking features.

"Why...why were you looking for me?" he finally murmurs, faltering for a moment, unable to tear his eyes away from her lips as his heart bangs erratically against his ribcage.

"I..." she seems incapable of speaking, and he's aware of _her_ breath hitching in her throat this time, and he can't help but smirk a little, despite his own breath catching as well.

"Yeah?" he prompts her, licking his own lips.

"Because..." she falters once more and the hand on his tie tightens and he can feel himself being pulled down slowly, torturously, fraction by fraction, towards her lips.

He lets a little smirk play about his lips, elation bursting to the surface as he pauses, mere _inches_ away from her supple lips. He hears her protest faintly, tugging ever so slightly at his tie, urging him to meet her lips halfway because they both know she's just too _god damn stubborn_ to make the first move.

He's won this one—they both know it. Whether the kiss occurs or not, he's won it, thrashed her just like she thrashed him last time.

And it feels _brilliant_.

He leans in again, a jolt of electricity charging through his veins as their noses graze ever so slightly. He hears her gasp softly and watches as a complex range of sentiments clash in her eyes. His smirk widens as he recognises a familiar one: lust.

_How's that for playing dirty, Evans?_

"Lily!"

A female voice jolts them both out of their reveries. As if struck by realisation, she stumbles backwards quickly, her cheeks flaming, and turns to see Mary waving her over.

"I'm coming," she calls, her voice shaky. He can't help but feel a tad smug that it was he, James Potter, who had such an effect on _Lily Evans_. She turns back to him, still blushing. "This isn't over, Potter," she tells him defiantly, though he notices she doesn't maintain eye contact for very long.

He smirks slightly, refraining from asking her _what_, exactly, isn't over, before she hurries over to her friends with his eyes following her.

_That_, he congratulates himself, _was a game well played_. He watches her reach her circle of friends, and he just can't help but feel smug at her uncertain demeanour. He isn't aware how long he's been watching her until Peter's voice snaps him out of his trance.

"Prongs?" James starts, glancing down to see Peter grinning up at him. "You with us?" he gestures towards himself and Sirius. James nods, avoiding his friends' knowing grins as he settles himself on the grass once more to partake in their discussion.

_Oh, believe me, Evans, _he thinks, glancing away as Padfoot shares with them one of his ridiculous ideas for a prank. Coincidentally, she, too, looks up, and their eyes connect across the grounds.

_This is __**far**__ from over_.

* * *

She's not here.

His eyes roam the common room, searching frantically for a flash of red.

She's _not here_.

He's been looking forward to this all night. Celebrating their first win of the Quidditch season isn't at all enjoyable without Lily in the vicinity. And as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he's disappointed. He's disappointed that she's not here.

But she said _she'd be here_. He distinctly heard her say to her friends that she would _be here_—

Sighing exasperatedly, James grabs a Firewhiskey and heads towards the centre of the room, ready to get completely smashed.

It's probably just another tactic; he shouldn't work himself up over this. She just wants to win, he tells himself angrily, she just wants to prove that he cares about their little contest.

Well, he doesn't. And he's not going to let this affect him so badly.

Red. A flash of red.

His eyes dart around the room frenetically. Is it her?

Eyes widening, he stares at her as she treks in through the portrait-hole, smiling at a few students who greet her.

His heart leaps to his throat and all the frustration instantly disappears. All that's left is an enormous, joyful smile on his face, and the erratic beating of his heart as he watches her halt at a drinks table, picking up a glass of Firewhiskey and downing it in one go.

_Nice,_ he reflects with a smirk.

He weaves through inebriated students and sneaks up behind her stealthily, stopping just inches before his muscular torso grazes her back. He leans in, his lips barely brushing her ear.

"Evans," he murmurs, his voice low and deep.

He smirks as he hears her breath catch in her throat. She whirls around rapidly and, taking a few, quick steps backwards, glances at him nervously.

"Potter," she says, and he takes in her flushed face with satisfaction.

_Score._

All's fair in love and war, Evans.

"Nice party," her eyes dance over his form momentarily before they drift up to his face once more. It takes a moment for him to realise she's complimenting him.

His lips part, but his swift, conceited remark dies on his tongue as he observes another boy approach her.

"Hi," he says uneasily, his eyes darting to James for a brief second.

"Hey," Lily smiles warmly, turning to face him.

"D'you, er...d'you want to dance?"

It's clear he's unsure as to whether she'll say yes; James contemplates, observing the boy's demeanour carefully. And it's not like she will, anyway. Sure, to the eye, the guy looks good enough, but if someone analyses him carefully (like James is doing), they'll notice that his eyes, as piercingly blue as they may be, are just too close together, the shirt he's wearing too large, his hair literally _dripping_ with gel—in all honesty, James concludes, he's just trying too hard. He looks like he's shaking, too, James scoffs inwardly.

Honestly, that's not how to ask a girl to dance. There is _no way_ Lily will say yes.

"Sure," she takes the boy's hand, throwing James a triumphant grin as his jaw slackens, and he stares after her as she strides towards the middle of the room.

_How the hell did that happen?_

She's scored...yet again. And that, he knows, is all that matters. Setting his jaw, he grabs a drink off a startled Sixth Year and downs it all in one go, feeling the cold liquid scald his throat. The alcohol has little effect oh him, but it affects him enough to let go of rational thinking. His eyes land on the pair dancing intimately in the centre of the room and jealousy explodes in the pit of his stomach.

_Still playing dirty? Well then..._

Growling under his breath, James purposefully swaggers up to the first girl he spots and grins dashingly, making sure they're in full view of Lily.

"Would you like to dance?" he asks chivalrously (though loudly, just so that it carries over to the dance floor), offering his hand to the girl, who giggles and nods, gripping his fingers tightly. She's drunk, James notes with satisfaction.

Good.

Leading her across the room and into the centre of the room, he makes sure to bump awfully hard into Lily's partner on the way.

"Oh, I'm _dreadfully_ sorry," James sneers as the boy tumbles forwards, nearly knocking Lily over in the process. Smirking victoriously at a glowering Lily, he tugs on the arm of the girl he's with, pulling her in.

He wraps his muscular arms around her waist and they begin dancing wildly. A few people hoot and wolf-whistle, halting their actions to watch them dance, and he can't help but feel a sense of pleasure at the glare he can feel Lily burning into the back of his tousled head of hair.

_Score_.

_And __**that**_, he notes complacently, _is how it's done_.

More cheering follows, accompanied by shouts of, "Go, Evans!" and James whirls around with his partner around to see Lily and _her_ partner dancing every bit as outrageously as they are.

And then that ferocious feeling erupts to the surface, grabbing, twisting his insides painfully, and his chest tightens as he watches the boy touch her in places she would not normally permit anyone to touch—he's _groping_ her, for Christ's sake! It doesn't matter that her curls are bouncing captivatingly, that her emerald eyes are sparkling with mirth as she locks eyes with his hazel smugly; he just wants to wrench the boy off her and beat him to a pulp because he _shouldn't_ be allowed to touch her like that.

In fact, he should be thrown into Azkaban for even _looking_ at her the way he is, James thinks, seething. He pulls his partner even closer, knowing that if he so much as lays a finger on Lily's partner, harms so much as a hair on his greasy head, Lily will castrate him then and there.

And he's well aware of the fact that she's winning, that she's scored _yet again_.

Whatever he does, she always seems to be a step ahead of him, always has an immediate retort or reaction. And it's so unbelievably _aggravating_.

He growls angrily, eyeing the two before him, and even his intoxicated partner recognises something's wrong.

"What?" she slurs, looking up at him innocently, halting her actions.

"I, erm," James glances down at her, taking in her blue eyes and dark brown hair. She's rather pretty, he decides. Her looks are nowhere _near_ Lily's, he knows, but she's still pretty enough to distract him from his pent-up frustration tonight. "Nothing," he shakes his head, flashing her one of his heart-melting smiles.

Pulling her closer, they resume dancing once more, but his hazel eyes harden almost immediately as they clash with Lily's emerald over the dance floor. She smirks.

She's won.

Again.

* * *

They've got rounds tonight. Normal, nightly rounds, like they always have. The rounds they've been doing ever since McGonagall assigned them to the two Heads at the beginning of the year.

It's normal. Customary. Nothing to be worried about.

These butterflies thrashing their wings inside his stomach, however, tell a completely different story. He's finding the jittery feeling they're giving him exceedingly irritating, and he can't think straight, not one bit.

_This is silly_, he tells himself. _It's only a stupid patrol, nothing else_.

And that's what he keeps telling himself over and over again, but he just can't shake off the feeling that there's something different about tonight. And that _something_, whatever it is, is hanging over him, a storm threatening to wash him away.

He's just so oddly _nervous_, and he's never nervous, never, not even when they're playing against Slytherin (because, really, Gryffindor always win). Having built up a casual, cool (and just a _tad_ conceited) exterior, he's always made sure to let no one save for the Marauders crumble that wall down. He's a brilliant actor, even he does say so himself, because hardly any one can ever tell when he's down or anxious—unless he shows it, of course, which he doesn't.

Then why, _why_ in the name of Merlin's left sock is he _nervous_? There's nothing to be nervous about, and yet he's jumpy and fidgety and the wall he's spent all those years constructing has fallen to rubble at his feet.

Maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the fact that tonight will be the first time he'll be with Lily after his humiliation at the party that night. Or maybe, it's the fact that Sirius keeps commenting on it mockingly every two minutes. Or _maybe_ it has to do with the fact that Lily herself keeps sending him furtive, triumphant smirks from across the Common Room.

But that's not it, that's not the reason his behaviour is equivalent to that of an anxious rat's. There's just something different, a shift in the atmosphere, in the air around him. A shift that gives him the feeling that tonight's not going to be like other nights.

_It's only a flipping patrol_, he reassures himself for the twentieth time. _**Just**__ a patrol._

And it is. It's just a patrol. Nothing _but_ a patrol, and he can't get humiliated (again) if he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't do anything silly. He'll be fine. He'll be—

"We've got rounds, James."

And there she is. Standing right in front of him with that 'devilish angel' look of hers that she's perfected so well, with her skirt hitched up high, but not too high, and her lips formed into that innocent little smirk.

She's waiting for him, he realises suddenly, for him to get up and accompany her to their patrols. The patrols he's been dreading all day.

"Right, of course..." he says, and his voice cracks from lack of use during the past hour and a half he's been sitting there, contemplating it all.

Slowly, he stands, and he's quite soon towering over her slim frame, with her eyes right on his and his eyes right on hers.

"Let's get going then," she says, her voice as steady as ever.

And as he follows her out of the portrait-hole, he realises: she called him James.

And Merlin, _never_ in his seventeen years of life had he heard his name sound so _good_ before. He wants her to say it again, and again, and again, and his mind wanders to a completely different situation, maybe in an empty classroom (because that would be naughty), and he wonders how she'd say his name then...

James, she said. She called him _James_.

They're walking now, in silence, a silence so uncomfortable and thick he can cut it with a knife. He walks a few paces behind her, not beside her as he usually does, and he watches as she reaches up and unconsciously musses up her hair, flicking it over her shoulder. She hums a tune as they round a corner, and she seems completely unaware of him and of the fact that he's becoming increasingly ill at ease with—with whatever this is between them.

He needs to talk.

Yes, she did call him James, and yes, she does look particularly ravishing tonight, but that doesn't stop the fact that he needs to mask how apprehensive he is. It doesn't stop the fact that she utterly tarnished his reputation at the party, and it definitely doesn't stop the fact that he needs to get her back for it.

"You know, if that skirt were any shorter, you'd be wearing nothing at all," he says, smirking, knowing it'll infuriate her. He's picked up a few broken pieces of his wall and slotted them together, using it to shield his uneasiness.

Her skirt, to be fair, is a presentable length, falling one or two inches above her knee; his comment couldn't be less true. He expects her to grab the bait, whirl around and let her anger explode at him, and he slows, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters behind her lazily.

"Mm..." is the only noise she makes, and he halts for a second, taken-aback, then decides she couldn't have heard him properly. Just as he opens his mouth to repeat his observation, she speaks. "If your head were any bigger, it'd explode."

He slows down again, groaning inwardly. He needs to win this one—his pride's at stake here, and he can't win, not if she's being like this.

"You're acting like such child, you know," Lily comments, turning to face him. She's smirking that delectable smirk of hers as she strides up to him slowly, and he can tell she's fighting back a laugh.

"I'm not acting like a child," he retorts sullenly, looking at her disbelievingly. "How am I a bloody child? Children don't do as they're told, and they sulk, and they're immature—"

"And you're not?" she interrupts smoothly, amused. "You're immature, you don't do as you're told, and you're sulking."

"Why would I be sulking?" he frowns, shrugging. He attempts to make the notion sound absurd, but somehow, he doesn't think it's working to that effect.

"Oh, I don't know," she, too, shrugs, but it's painfully clear to him that she's being sarcastic. "It obviously wouldn't have anything to do with being humiliated at your little party, would it?"

"I'm not sulking," he says defensively, putting his guard up. He's not sulking. He was nervous at one point, but not anymore, and he's definitely not sulking. In fact, he's rather insulted that she's labelled him as a child.

"It's typical male behaviour—you lot can't _stand_ to lose, especially not to women," Lily comments airily, examining her nails innocently.

"I'm _not_ sulking," he repeats, scowling. He refuses to believe she's right, because, really, she's not.

...is she?

"You're not?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. He doesn't answer, glowering at her.

He can't even begin to understand why he's getting so riled up about it—it's not even true, after all. But there's just something about the way she's saying it, with that triumphant grin and seductive look, that makes him want to flee from the scene, and he can't do that—it makes him frustrated.

Lily's silent for a moment, letting hope thrive inside of him for a fraction of a second. He chances a glance down at her, but she's looking up at him with small, sly grin. She takes a step towards him, and he wonders what the hell she's doing, because she's too close now, far too close, and if he's to control himself, then she has to take at least one step backward. She licks her lips before speaking, and he swallows, his jaw tensing, willing himself not to look at her lips, but it's a battle he's losing.

"If," Lily says unhurriedly, keeping her glinting green eyes on his, "I asked you to kiss me right now," she pauses, and his heart quickens. She's straightened up now, and her lips are so close to his, _so_ close, and he could just lean down, and— "Would you do it?"

Would he do it? He wants to, oh, he wants to kiss her so badly...

His gaze is firmly locked on her lips but he shakes his head slowly nevertheless. He inhales shakily as the pink tip of her tongue darts out again, wetting her bottom lip.

Bad idea—her scent fills his nostrils and he feels as though he's drowning. It's such a good feeling, and he finds himself leaning towards her until their noses are a hair's breadth away from touching. He needs to gain the upper hand—and fast.

His mind's telling him to blink, step back and continue with the rounds, but his organs don't seem to obey. Hands curl to fists as he attempts to stay in control of his urges and stand his ground.

"Why not?" she asks, and her voice is soft and seductive and he's just so _tempted_... She's still smirking, and he can tell she got the answer she was expecting. He shakes his head, his eyes fluttering shut as she draws even nearer, and he knows she's scored, but he doesn't care.

She's teasing him again, but he won't give in—not this time. He's wanted to kiss her for the better part of six years, but not when his pride's that close to being reduced to cinders.

He won't kiss her. His body's not satisfied with that, however, and one way or another, he _wants_ to kiss her. But he can't, he knows he can't, not without losing again.

If _she_ kisses _him_, however...

Slowly, he opens his eyes again, until hazel clash against emerald.

"No..." His voice is husky, a sign that his resolution is cracking—fast. "_You_ kiss _me_."

"Oh, but that can't happen, James," she purrs, putting his given name into play. He almost groans and loses it then and there from the way his name rolls off her tongue. "_You_ kiss _me_," she throws his words right back at him, scoring.

He can almost feel the taste of her on his tongue as her breath crashes over his lips. He swallows, wondering where she's going with this, but a split-second later, he realises he doesn't give a fuck, to be honest. He just wants them to kiss.

There's a pause, a slow, torturous pause that can't be long enough, in his opinion, with the tension around them sizzling and crackling.

And, James thinks, they haven't even kissed yet.

_Yet_.

Because the way this is unfolding, they most likely will.

It's just she looks so _alluring_, with her sparkling green eyes, and her sly and devilish yet ever so seductive grin, and her tight blouse fitting her curves perfectly, letting his imagination _reel_...

He hates it. He hates what she does to him. He hates that she _knows_ what she does to him, and he hates that he can't help but be affected by her this much. He hates it all, and he wants to hate her, he truly does, but he just—can't. It's physically _not_ possible to hate the gorgeous little tease in front of him, and he really doesn't know why. She's not even _touching_ him; no part of their bodies are in contact, and he can't believe she's looking this enticing without even _trying_.

He's still watching her, her every movement, every inhalation, every smirk that graces her lips, and he just finds it all so unbelievably sexy and he wants to kiss her _so badly_...

Why isn't he kissing her? It's not like he has anything to lose—she permanently stained his reputation at the party, so there isn't anything worse she can do to him...

In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he comes to realise—there _isn't_ a reason why he shouldn't be kissing her.

Then...why isn't he?

"So," she lifts an eyebrow. "It doesn't seem like you're going to kiss me," she comments lightly, and that darned grin on her lips just won't go away. Why's she even smiling, anyway? "Well then—"

But whatever she has in mind, he doesn't let her say. Capturing her lips in his fiercely, he pushes her against the wall, kissing her as though there's no tomorrow.

He feels her smile against his lips as she responds just as intensely, her hands travelling up his chest, across his shoulders and into his tousled hair, tugging him closer.

He's kissing her. He's _kissing_ her. _He's kissing her_.

He can't believe it—it just seems so unreal and it feels _so_ _good_ he actually wonders if he's dreaming; because it wouldn't be the first time he's dreamt of something along the lines of this occurring.

It's just surreal, the soft feel of her fingers threaded in his hair, and he can't help but groan as her nails scratch his scalp and he kisses her even harder.

And the realisation dawns on him—_this_ is what it's always been about, ever since they began playing the game in First Year, when they had no clue what the hell they were doing or why they were playing the game in the first place.

This is it, because it's always been about this, about _them_, about riling each other up and making each other jealous and teasing each other until one of them just couldn't take it anymore. _This_ is the release of every little battle they've ever fought, every game they've ever played with each other, a release of all the sexual tension they'd bottled up over the years.

_That's_ why this year's been different. Because, due to Dumbledore's decision of making them Heads, they've unwittingly grown more comfortable with each other, and he's been more attracted to her lately than ever before.

This is _it_.

He's _that_ close to spiralling out of control now, with every little noise she's making in the back of her throat, and the feeling of her lips sliding over his. His fingers rub the smooth skin just under the hem of her blouse and he needs air, but the desire to continue kissing her is far, _far_ more overwhelming, so he pays no heed. He won't be able to break the kiss anyway, because her arms are locked too securely around his neck for him to move anywhere but closer towards her, and for now, he's not complaining.

But finally, after what seems like hours of snogging, she pulls away. He's panting hard and so is she, her lips red and swollen and friction-chapped, her dark crimson locks tousled from the amount of times he ran his fingers through it, her blouse crinkled and creased. He knows _he_ doesn't look much better; he can feel his hair sticking up from the back and he's pretty sure his shirt looks worse than hers.

She's smirking at him again and his insides tighten at how much he wants her right now.

"So you _were_ sulking," she pants, and runs a hand over his mussed hair in an attempt to smooth it down even the slightest, tugging him even closer in the process. He scowls, his head falling beside hers as they both attempt to fill their oxygen-deprived lungs.

"No, I wasn't," he breathes into her ear after taking a lungful of air. He hears her tinkling laugh and his frown deepens.

"Yes, you were," she pulls back and sniggers again. "Because that's why it took you so long to kiss me." He's not going to admit that she's right, and he knows she's aware of that, so he can't understand why she's saying this.

"I wasn't sul—"

But Lily doesn't let him finish, instead placing her mouth over his again. And he shuts up, because he'll never, _never_ get used to this feeling, this mind-blowing feeling of kissing Lily Evans, of lust and want and desire and so much more he's afraid to put into words.

And so what if he _had_ been sulking? So what if that _was_ why they hadn't been kissing ten minutes ago? Does it even matter?

Because the game's over now and she's won, and to be frank, he doesn't mind, at least not now anyway. She's won because her point was proven and _he_ kissed her, just as she'd originally intended—but technically _he's_ the one who's won.

He's won because he's been after her for God knows how long—and he finally has her.

And really, victory couldn't taste sweeter.

* * *

**A/N:** Oh god. _Finally_. I thought I'd _never_ finish this. I think it's all right, though, to be honest—not too bad. Okay, so I've edited a few mistakes on here—quite a few, actually...and it seems ok-ish now. So...leave us a review? I'll reply as soon as I can. **:)**


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